


Choices

by lojla007



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, BAMF Hermione Granger, F/M, Hurt, Hurt Hermione Granger, Injury Recovery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:21:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22238542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lojla007/pseuds/lojla007
Summary: We have many choices in our lives. Some affect us more, some less. And some can affect everyone in the world.This is a story of a girl that is forever changed by the things done to her, and a man forever changed by the things done for her.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 16
Kudos: 46





	1. The beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first proper fic, plus english isn't my first language so please, be kind.  
> Reviews are welcome.  
> Enjoy.

They were dragging her across the floor, her feet limply scraping behind her. She feebly tried to lift her head, but a sharp pain shot through her, so she let it fall on her chest again. A murmur was coming from all around her. The air was damp and smelled like mold.

They threw her on the ground when they stopped, and she hit her head on the stones. A small whimper escaped her lips, before she pressed them shut. Slowly, she managed to get her hands beneath her and lift herself up, just a little. She raised her head, ignoring the pain throbbing in her temples, and looked at Him for the first time.

Voldemort was even worse looking in person, than Hermione could ever picture from Harry’s description, but no words were able to portray the malice and evil coming from his eyes. The red snake-like pupils reminded her of Crookshanks for a second; that thought was gone the very next. He never had this lust for pain in his eyes. Hermione could not suppress a shiver that ran down her spine. 

“Well, if it isn’t our favorite mudblood.” His voice was raspy, yet it had almost a silky quality to it, like a cloth draped over the sharpest razor, trying to hide its deadliness. 

“I will never give Harry to you,” Hermione spat out, proud that her voice didn’t waiver. There was a small chance she would die before they managed to break her; she doubted they would let her. 

Voldemort only let out a small laugh. It felt wrong, crawling up her back.

“I don’t want you to give me young mister Potter,” he drawled, managing to surprise her. His next words, however, stopped her heart once again. “No, my little creature, I have other plans for you.”

She felt her palms get sweaty, the hair on her arms stood up. She frantically looked around herself, searching for something. What it was, she didn’t know.  
Maybe a way out of a situation with no escape.

“Miss Granger deserves some attention, I believe.” Voldemort’s voice made her look at him sharply. One corner of his mouth was raised. Somehow, this scared Hermione more than his words. 

There was a movement all around her and in the next moment she was surrounded by tall dark figures, with wolfish smiles and a sadistic gleam in their eyes. The small hope some of them might have some mercy died at the sight. The first one to raise his wand stared right into her eyes. When he almost lovingly said the incantation, she searched his gaze for anything human. As the bones in her arms shattered and the pain hit her, she didn’t turn away. He didn’t move a muscle.

It didn’t take long before she started screaming. 

#####

She came to her senses in pain. First, she felt cold stones digging into her back, next a loud sound of dripping water sent a spike through her brain. And as if that had been the dam that broke, her entire body screamed with agony. She moaned and tried to curl into herself, only to choke out a broken yell, when the shattered bones in her arms moved and she felt them poke her muscles, and the cuts on her legs opened and lazily gushed out blood. The burning stripes winded across her torso made her breathing shallow and labored. She tried to stay as still as she could and looked around to assess her surroundings. Without moving her head, she couldn’t really see much, only the stone walls and a barely visible ceiling.

Every part of her hurt, but she managed to slightly turn her head without aggravating her injuries further and spotted a pitcher near her on the floor. For a moment she contemplated her options, but her rational mind won over the need to avoid any pain caused by moving. She knew she needed water, if only because of the blood loss that made her feel weak. The trickles of blood running down her legs were a cause for concern, but her entire body was one big wound, so maybe everything was a cause for concern. A soft sigh left her lips, when she realized her arms were useless to her and she would have to find a way to get up, crawl over to the jug and drink some of the water without using them. 

Hermione was by no means a coward, but she found herself stalling, not wanting to move and bring about the pain she knew was going to come. After a few more moments, she steeled herself and started to raise herself up from the floor. Almost immediately she gasped as wounds on her back she didn’t know about stretched and send new waves of pain flooding her system. She fell back on the ground and tears welled up in her eyes. This would be even harder than she had predicted. 

Hermione always had strong will. This was evident from her early childhood and throughout her school career. Back in muggle school, it chased away every potential friend and even at Hogwarts, where she finally found true friends, it secluded her from most of her peers. Now though, it would probably be the thing that would keep her alive. So, Hermione didn’t let the determination slip from her as she slowly rolled over to her side, quiet sobs leaving her lips at the burning pain, and she pulled her legs under herself, before gradually lifting her upper body. She felt blood dripping from her back and thigs, soaking up in her tattered clothes.

Her arms were the biggest concern, though. She could even see the fragments of her bones moving beneath her skin, despite her careful efforts not to upset them. But she didn’t have her wand and even though she had tried some wandless magic, she could barely do an Accio, and complex spells such as those to repair or at least align the bones in her arms? Required complicated hand gestures to properly channel the magic. She was in no state to perform any sort of a spell. Having concluded, that there was nothing she could do about her arms, she turned her focus to the water sitting next to her. The fact that it could very well be poisoned crossed her mind, but she was acutely aware of the dizziness that was starting to take over her head, caused by the blood loss, so she had little in the matter of a choice. Either she would risk it and perhaps die of poisoning, or she didn’t even take a sip and surely die of dehydration and her injuries. She refused the possibility that the water may contain anything that would cause her more agony. 

“Get it the fuck together, Granger,” she whispered through clenched teeth. Slightly groaning, she leaned forward, supporting herself with her knees beneath her and lowered her head to the pitcher. She was careful not to touch her arms on the floor, gingerly holding them as still as possible. 

The first sip was like heaven. The second made her close her eyes in faint bliss. After a few more sips, she forced herself to stop. She didn’t know how long this pitcher would have to last for. It would be foolish to drink it all now and then thirst later. Feeling slightly better, Hermione made her way on her knees to one of the walls on her side. Slowly and with a lot of muttered curses, now that she completely stopped caring if anyone was listening, she laid on the floor, her arms gently placed next to her. Putting them there involved more swearing. 

She couldn’t completely relax, not with the pain constantly pumping through her body, knowing she was held by an insane wizard who wished to eliminate all her kind. But all her injuries took a tool on her and Hermione was exhausted. So, she closed her eyes and soon fell into restless sleep. 

###

When Hermione woke up again, she was only slightly refreshed. She moved her hands without thinking, wanting to rub her arms in the chill of her cell. Instantly she cringed and forcefully stilled her movement, expecting terrible pain. She was understandably confused and scared when all she felt was an ache- unpleasant one- but no longer agonizing. 

Did they do something to her while she was sleeping? Or did she sleep longer than she thought? That notion was quickly dismissed. The bones would have healed wrong, had they healed on their own. But as she examined her arms, it seemed that they were properly aligned and in late stage of healing. She should avoid using them, but perhaps her arms wouldn’t be mangled and useless in the end. 

Hermione snorted at the thought. The only end she would see here would be her death or maybe complete madness brought by her torturers.

Still wondering which option would come sooner, she slowly rose up on her knees, taking notes of every injury. From what she could see beneath her ruined t-shirt, the wells on her torso were a bit closed and the cuts on her legs no longer bled. Her breathing was also easier. However, she noticed that apart from her arms, most of her wounds were only closed in a way several days of rest would cause. It didn’t sit right with her. Why heal her arms and not the rest? What were they trying to accomplish? 

Swallowing with a difficulty, she turned her head towards the pitcher, still innocently sitting in the middle of the room. The water she had left there before was still there and Hermione felt her thirst. She crawled towards it and drank deeply. A nagging voice in her head told her not to waste the water, to save some for later, but her parched throat and deep exhaustion pushed the voice to the back of her mind. Only when she felt her stomach protest the sudden fullness did she stop. 

With a sigh, she returned to her wall, leaning against it. She hissed when the cold stones scraped against the wounds on her back, but soon even that pain turned into only one of the numerous aches in her body. 

Eyes trained on the wooden doors leading to her cell, Hermione settled to wait for her tormentors to return. 

####

After a several more hours, Hermione snapped awake. Nobody came in for a long time, so Hermione managed to doze off. Upon waking up, she checked her injures again. Her arms barely hurt anymore and the bigger cuts on her legs seemed to be a bit more healed than before. Hermione knew that it required extreme skill to be able to heal somebody without seeing them and she didn’t think any Death Eaters would bother with her. Brain working at a renewed speed, she came to the only possible conclusion; there was some sort of a healing potion in the water. She immediately rushed to the pitcher, only to find it refilled. She stopped in her tracks and just stared at it for a few moments. Would they poison her after healing her? She wouldn’t put it past them, really, but her hopeful side won the argument raging in her head and once Hermione decided something, she went through with it. So, she raised the pitcher from the floor, marveling at the painless feeling in her arms and drank deeply. Almost at once, after she washed down the foul taste in her mouth, she noticed the water now tasted different. Where before it had a tang of freshness, it was now just a regular water left outside. 

“There’s no more potion,” she whispered when the realization hit her. What did that mean for her? And why did they heal her in the first place?

She looked down to see how much water there was left. She drank barely a third of it, but who was she to say if they would refill it again, or how long before they did. She put it back down and returned to her spot by the wall. She curled up into herself, trying to keep in some additional warmth. The wounds on her back once again protested being pressed against the cold, harsh stones, but Hemione paid it no mind. Either they would come for her and kill her, or she would die right there in the cell, so what did some discomfort matter?

Some time passed after that. Hermione slept a few times, always restlessly and for short periods of time, as all her injuries didn’t really let her relax, as well as every other part of her predicament. When the need arose, she found a small hole in the far corner of her cell. Its purpose was very clear. 

She always drank only small portions of the water, but without any food, her stomach soon started cramping. At first, it was unrecognizable from the pain of the welts across her chest, but quickly it became one of the things she just couldn’t ignore. She was also worried about infection getting into her open wounds; it turned out that rightly so. 

The first to get inflamed were the cuts on her back, probably from the way she often pressed them into the stone when she was alert. Next came the cuts on her side, the ones she slept on. Pretty soon at least half of her wounds was red and oozing. At the beginning, she tried to clean them with water, but since it didn’t seem to be helping, she soon stopped wasting what little water she had left. 

It was obvious they weren’t trying to heal her anymore; for one, the water no longer had that peculiar taste as before. Secondly, she had read enough about healing to know that any sort of a healing potion would first attack the infection that was slowly taking apart her body.

Hemione was laying on her stomach, the one place where she had the least inflamed wounds and she was staring at the opposite wall. Her breathing was very slow due to her body losing the battle to live. She once thought her will would help her survive. Now she knew nothing would help her. They probably only healed her to prolong her suffering, so she wouldn’t die on them too quickly. She even lost her hope that maybe someone would come and save her. Maybe the Order or Dumbledore. Or Harry. She almost couldn’t remember what her best friend looked like. After a few feeble tries to recall, she gave up. 

“I love you, Mum. I love you, Dad,” she whispered, her voice so weak it wasn’t even audible in the quiet of her cell. “I love you, Harry. I love you, Ron. I’m going to miss all of you.” The effort to talk took all the remaining energy from her and Hermione let her eyelids fall shut with a shuddering breath. 

The door opened and two black figures stepped into the cell.


	2. Close All The Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your support and feedback. Im sorry this chapter wasn't sooner, but it was rather heavy to write and I had to take several breaks for my mental health.  
> I apologise for the Latin, it is completely just google, so ya know.  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: torture, whipping, death of a child!  
> Stay safe!

The day was warm, and she took her chance to sit in the garden, and bathe in the sunlight. Crookshanks was sprawled at her feet, enjoying the warmth with her. When he suddenly shot up, she didn’t pay him much mind; he could take care of himself and had probably just seen some prey. His shriek had her on her feet in a second though, her wand drawn, eyes scanning her surroundings. 

“Crooks?” she called out softly, still alert. She followed his quiet meow into one corner of the garden, covered in thick bushes. She caught a sight of his orange fur, and he let out a small whimper.

“Oh, my dear, did you get stuck here again?” she sighed, putting her wand away. She knew from experience that trying to charm the bushes away only tangled him in more. She reached into the bushes, careful of the twigs and thorns. She felt her hand connect with soft fur and at the same time heard a triumphant meow from behind her. She froze, her fingers still in the bushes, and turned her head around. 

Crookshanks could only let the bird out of his mouth to try and help his human, before Hermione disappeared with a loud crack. 

##

„Do you want some, Pet?”

“Yes, Master, please,” Hermione whined, forehead touching the stones. 

“You beg so nice, Pet,” Mulciber chuckled, “I will give you a bite.” Hemione whimpered quietly. They must have been in a good mood. “But you can’t use your hands.”

She knew better than to rise from her position on the floor without permission, so they couldn’t see her clench her teeth and bite back a moan. 

“Come, Pet, and take a bite,” he drawled in a parody of a sweet voice. Hermione had some practice in getting up without her hands, so it wasn’t that difficult. When she straightened up, she faced her jailers, not even flinching anymore. The horrible sight has greeted her many times now; it couldn’t really faze her. 

“Thank you, Master, for being so good,” she said, barely refraining from shuddering at the words. The scene may not have affected her anymore but humiliating herself before them still got to her. Her pride was in pieces. “May I chew?” She hadn’t asked the first time. She could still feel where her jaw had broken. 

“So well behaved, Pet,” Mulciber grinned. “No.”

She immediately lost all hope of getting some food in her stomach. If she couldn’t chew, she would have to take a very small bite and there was no guarantee they would let her take another. But she still knew better.

“Thank you, Master,” she bowed her head. The flogging she had gotten for not thanking had been brutal and she had scars on her back to prove it. 

“Take a bite, Pet,” Mulciber ordered. She crawled closer and stretched her neck to get a tiny bite. Just as she was about to sink her teeth into the offered bread, Mulciber yanked his hand back and, trying to chase the food, Hermione fell over. Sharp pain bloomed in her nose and she was sure it was broken. The men erupted in laughter. 

“Something the matter, Pet?” Nott Sr. taunted.

“No, Master,” Hermione choked out through the blood flowing into her mouth. She inhaled some of it and started coughing.

While she was gasping for air on the floor, the men were watching her with a gleam in their eyes. 

“Seems our Pet is not going to entertain us,” Mulciber spoke up, forcing Hermione to resume her position on the floor, with her forehead pressed against the stone. Staying with the lot of them was bad but being declared useless for the time being was thousand times worse. 

“Come, Pet. Dance for us!” one of them exclaimed, getting instant approval from the rest. 

Hermione got up, not bothering to wipe away the blood on her face and started to move.

####

“ _Depuro caput!_ ” Oh, how has Hermione come to hate that spell. With her thoughts clearing, she realized she has automatically gotten into her position. The stones were familiar against her skin and the pain in her marks as they stretched on her back was barely noticeable.

“Pet!” 

“Yes, Master.” Right away she crawled before his chair, not flinching when he put his dirty boots on her wounds. Mind crystal clear, but devoid of all thoughts, she knelt there, unmoving, unseeing, until another one called for her. When they made her beg for food, for permission to cuddle to their legs, she made her voice desperate, her eyes shine with tears and her hands tremble. Meanwhile, she was hidden, deep in her soul, retrieved into the back of her mind, where their words didn’t sting, and the curses didn’t hurt. 

Goyle Sr. took a liking in shattering the bones in her arms and now did it almost every time. Sometimes he would spice it up and target her legs. On one memorable occasion, he crushed her entire ribcage. That had been a particularly painful recovery.

Nott favored humiliating her. He made her beg to be petted and then had her sit in his lap as he ran his fingers over her skin. 

The lesser Death Eaters mostly relished in pain; beating, kicking, Cruciatus. After some time, that was easier to ignore.

Malfoy, though… He liked whipping her. He would take his sweet time with it as well. He had an assortment of whips and enjoyed trying all of them on her, just to see how she would react. Those- those weren’t easy. She was never able to run into her mind from them. He absolutely terrified her. Any time he wasn’t there, she had trouble not weeping from joy. But every second she spent in her cell, she was spiraling into panic, because she never knew when they would come for her. 

When He would come for her. 

###

“Get up, Pet,” a voice pulled her out of her mind. She was sitting by one of the walls of her cell and her heart rapidly picked up the pace. Only once before had they brought her out conscious. She started to tremble but rose to her feet all the same.

“What’s going on?” she whispered. The rules didn’t apply outside of playroom and she needed to know. 

“You will get an honor!” one of them grinned at her, causing her to shudder. “The Dark Lord will see you now.” 

Oh Merlin. This wasn’t good. Was she finally going to die? The longer they had played with her, the more she started to think she might not die. Having the prospect brought back so suddenly threw her into a deep terror. 

“No!” She started to struggle in their hold, whimpers and sobs escaping her, as they dragged her further on, her wounds opening and the entrance to the hall getting closer and closer, a trail of blood behind her. 

“Oh, Pet, don’t you want to see your master?” Mulciber, by the sound of it, asked her in a fake honeyed voice. “He’ll play with you so nicely!” Both men chuckled at that and Hermione could not hold the tear that ran down her cheek. 

Finally, they reached the hall and the doors opened before them. It was just as she remembered, big, the walls covered in some sort of a glowing slime which gave the room a gloomy atmosphere. Her eyes strayed to the place where they first had a go at her, just for a moment, before they threw her in front of the throne. 

“Show your manners, Pet,” Malfoy ordered in a flat voice. Despite the uncontrollable tremors that were going through her body, some of them terror and some Crucio residue, she automatically scrambled into her position, feeling the sharp stink of old blood and dirt rising into her nose from the stones. Her unconscious compliance made her force back a sob- they had trained her well. 

“Ah, the mudblood,” a cold voice drawled above her. She pressed her fingers into the floor.

 _You have got to survive!_ a desperate tiny voice in her mind called out. _For Harry. For Ron. For your parents. For you, please!_  


Tears were streaming down her face, but Hermione held still. She would not give up in front of him. She has survived his followers; she has survived Malfoy. She would survive this. And if her killed her, well, she would die as herself, not a broken toy.

“Do you know why you are here, Mudblood?” Voldemort asked, his sharp voice crawling against her spine.

“No, Master,” she rasped out. She made sure her hands were still pressed against the floor as hard as possible.

“Well, I have a special job for you, Mudblood. An honor, you might say.” It took almost every ounce of strength she had to stop herself from shaking. “Look to your left.”

Her mind screamed at her not to, that only suffering laid in his orders, but her body had been trained in pain and self-preservation controlled her more than terrified thoughts.

“No, please,” she cried out when she saw what he had prepared for her. A small girl, maybe five years old, was standing next to Malfoy, brown eyes wide with terror, tears streaming down her cheeks, and in her hand was a whip. She was looking at Hermione, and Hermione felt it searing into her soul. “Don’t hurt her, please. Let her go,” she pleaded, unable to tear her eyes from the child.

“Do you like her? She’s a Muggle, thought that magic was funny. Until it took away her voice and ripped her away into a cold, unfamiliar place. Then she didn’t think it was funny anymore.”

“Please,” Hermione was sobbing out loud now, one shaking hand reaching towards the girl, hoping against hope that maybe, if she just tried hard enough, she could save her.

“Such bad manners, Mudblood,” Voldemort tutted. “Nobody allowed you to move.”

Hermione didn’t care. He could hurt her all he wanted if he left the child alone. Desperate, she turned her head towards him and stared into his face. Anger and hatred were burning in her chest and she channeled it all into her next words.

“You’re not worthy of manners. Even Malfoy there is more than you’ll ever be.” She could see him getting full of rage and went for the kill. “Did mommy not love you?”

With a harsh flick of his wrist, she was writhing on the floor, screaming in pain. Every nerve, already frayed from all the torture she had endured, was on fire. Still, a tiny part of her mind was grateful, that he was focusing on her. If she kept it up, maybe he would forget about the girl. _Please, let him forget about her_ , she sent a prayer to anyone who might have been listening.

She should have realized no god was listening that day.

“I know what you are doing, Mudblood,” Voldemort whispered, when she stopped screaming. “Now, it will only be worse.”

_Oh no. What have I done?_

Only a haggard breath left her lips in protest. Her hands were shaking now that she couldn’t force them to be still. She focused her eyes on the girl, only to see her take jerky steps towards Hermione. Her mouth was opening and closing, perhaps she was crying out for her parents, but no sounds escaped her.

“It’s okay,” Hermione forced out of her abused throat. The girl blinked at her. “You’re going to be okay. I promise.”

Voldemort let out a chuckle at that. “You cannot promise little Sophie anything, Mudblood.”

Hermione didn’t listen to him, instead she kept her eyes trained on the wide eyes. “Sophie, listen to me. Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll be back with your mom and dad in no time.” She hoped it would be enough. Sophie was still trembling, but at least the tears have stopped flowing.

“My, my. How touching,” Voldemort said. “Now, dear Sophie, you will have the honor of reminding our Mudblood of her place. And you, Mudblood, will resume your position and count it all out. Otherwise, for every lash you forget to count, one lash will go on the back of this lovely girl. Shall we begin?”

And with that, Sophie raised her arm and brought down the whip. Hermione gasped a little; this was no longer something to cry about.

“One,” she rasped out, remembering Voldemort’s words. She focused her eyes back on Sophie, who was crying again. Hermione could see her straining her eyes, probably trying to close them. She was controlled more than Hermione thought, if she was forced to look.

By the third lash it was clear that Sophie’s hand was guided; there was no way she would have enough strength to cause such pain.

It was around twenty that the whip managed to fall twice on the same spot and Hermione clenched her teeth, little sobs passing her lips, as her muscles trembled from the effort to keep herself in her position. She didn’t realize she had forgotten to count until a high-pitched cry made her look at Sophie. Sophie was on her knees and Hermione could see the magical whip disappearing. Voldemort had probably lifted the Silencio for a moment so that Hermione could hear her, because now Sophie made no sound again.

“No!” she whimpered. _What have I done?_

“You may continue,” Voldemort ordered in a cold tone. Sophie was yanked back on her feet with a spell and Hermione knew in that moment that Sophie would not survive after they finished with Hermione’s torture. She could only hope that it would be fast.

The whipping resumed and Hermione made double sure to count every lash. She wouldn’t cause any more pain to Sophie.

Soon it turned into an endless cycle of pain.

Lash.

“Forty-four.”

Lash.

“Forty-five.”

Lash.

“Forty-six.”

Again.

And again.

And again.

At fifty, Voldemort finally ordered for it to stop. Hermione collapsed into a heap sometime after forty, as her arms no longer supported her. Hovering on the edge of consciousness, she let out a sigh. Slowly, she forced her eyes open to search out Sophie. She was crumpled on the floor, her chest barely moving. Hermione pushed herself up, spots dancing before her eyes and crying softly, and made her way to the girl, painstakingly slow. Once she reached her, she lifted Sophie’s head into her lap.

“You will not save her, Mudblood.” Hermione startled and turned her head to look at Him. Her eyes were half closed from the pain, her back shredded, blood making a trail from her original spot. But her shaking hands were soft as she caressed the brown hair under her fingertips. She looked back at Sophie, unconscious from all the pain, mental and physical.

“I know,” she admitted quietly. She cradled Sophie’s head in her hands and, before anybody realized what she was about to do, quickly snapped her neck. 

Voldemort’s roar was the last thing she heard before blacking out.

###

Waking up wasn’t welcomed. Hermione didn’t open her eyes; she didn’t want to see… Tears leaked down her temples, disappearing into her hair. A hole was opening in her chest, deep and aching. She could almost feel her heart falling into it.

It was after a few minutes that she registered anything around her. The soft ground, the moving air. She managed to open her eyes; she closed them in disbelief right away. But the feeling was unmistakable, she really was outside. So, it was possible that…

She dared to look again, arguing herself into it- she at least had to have evidence if it was real or not. Her ever organizing mind immediately begin to catalogue everything in sight, but she no longer had any doubt. Her magic reached out and felt Hogwarts’ wards. They were warm and she relished in the feeling after being so cold for so long.

Her hands curled in longing and she was surprised to find a wand in one of them. Her fingers brushed against the wood, recognizing the familiar dents.

She turned her head to look at it, mind blanking for a second at the sight of her wand. Then she frantically clenched her fingers around it and pointed it at the sky.

“ _Vocationem auxilium!_ ”

With a sigh, she let herself fall back into blackness, the red sign blazing above.


End file.
